My family moved to Buffalo, New York in 1940 where I was raised.
I feel as if I were a piece in a game of chess, when my opponent says of it: That piece cannot be moved.
For much of my life – my sister and I have talked about this – when we moved, we just thought the world behind us disappeared, and all of the people, they just didn’t exist any more.
If we moved from industrialized agriculture to re-localized organic agriculture, we could sequester about one quarter of the carbon moving into the air and destroying our glaciers, oceans, forests and lands.
It is a myth, not a mandate, a fable not a logic, and symbol rather than a reason by which men are moved.
That is how it stiffens, my vision of that seaside childhood. My father died; we moved inland. Whereon those nine first years of my life sealed themselves off like a ship in a bottle – beautiful, inaccessible, obsolete: a fine, white, flying myth.
At school, there were more Davids than any other name: more than 20 of us cousins out of 40 pupils. When my older cousins moved on, the school had to close.
I moved to Harvard in 1998, and in 2000 the first kidney exchange in the United States was done at a hospital nearby. I started to think, ‘Gee, there might be a way where I could help organize it, make it easier for people to find kidneys.’
I do believe the Democratic party has moved far to the right. I do believe that the party has a bunch of elephants running around in donkey clothes.
In 1975, I quit my tenure, and we moved from Ann Arbor to New Hampshire. It was daunting to pay for groceries and the mortgage by freelance writing – but it worked, and I loved doing it.